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I Think John Mercer Is Rubbing Off On Her

Hal

I’ve been noticing that Pandora keeps leaving her phone charger on the kitchen counter lately. It’s a small thing, and under normal circumstances I probably wouldn’t even notice it, but Pandora usually puts things away when she’s finished with them. John Mercer, on the other hand, will leave a charger plugged into an outlet for a week and then spend twenty minutes accusing the rest of us of moving it when he finally realizes he doesn’t know where it is. Last week, he left his charger on the kitchen counter for three days. Now Pandora’s charger is sitting in almost exactly the same place. Maybe she’s just been busy, but I can’t help wondering if John Mercer is rubbing off on her.

The more I thought about it, the more little things started coming to mind. Pandora has always been the person who straightens the couch cushions before sitting down and carries an empty glass into the kitchen simply because she happens to be walking that direction. John is the person who will walk past the same empty glass twelve times because apparently it hasn’t officially become his problem yet. Lately, though, Pandora seems more relaxed about things. A coffee mug will stay on the table until afternoon, her shoes might remain beside the couch instead of going into the closet, and yesterday she left her charger on the counter overnight. None of these things matter individually, but taken together, I’m beginning to see a pattern.

Pandora has been busy with her new job, so there’s an obvious explanation. She comes home tired, we eat dinner, and sometimes she doesn’t feel like putting everything away immediately. That’s completely reasonable. Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t particularly enjoy reasonable explanations when unreasonable ones are available. Instead, I started wondering whether living with John for so long had gradually changed her standards. Maybe she had finally realized that if John could leave his belongings scattered around the apartment without civilization collapsing, she could too.

I tested this theory by looking around the living room. John’s sweatshirt was hanging over the back of a chair, and there was a coffee mug on the end table that I was reasonably certain belonged to him, although establishing ownership in this apartment would probably require forensic testing. His shoes were beside the couch, one pointing toward the television and the other toward the hallway as though they had disagreed about where they were going. Mr Whiskers was asleep directly in the middle of everything, contributing nothing while somehow looking like the only resident completely satisfied with the arrangement. Then I noticed Pandora’s book sitting on the coffee table. She never leaves books there.

I picked it up and stared at it until Pandora noticed me from the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked. I told her I was doing nothing, which apparently wasn’t convincing because she pointed out that I was staring at her book. I explained that I was observing it, and she told me that sounded suspiciously like staring with extra steps. I put the book back exactly where I found it. She had a point, but that wasn’t important. What mattered was that Pandora had left something out, John had several things out, and those two facts existed simultaneously. Correlation wasn’t causation, obviously, but it wasn’t not causation either.

The charger might have been the beginning, so I started watching John more closely. A few minutes later he came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, stared inside for several seconds, closed it, and walked away without taking anything. I asked him why he had opened the refrigerator if he didn’t want anything, and he said he had changed his mind about being hungry. That seemed reasonable enough until Pandora walked into the kitchen less than a minute later, opened the refrigerator, stared inside for several seconds, closed it, and walked away.

I nearly dropped my coffee. There it was. John looked at me and asked why I was staring at them like that, so I pointed out that they had both just performed exactly the same pointless refrigerator ritual. Pandora said she had been checking what we had for dinner. I asked whether she could have done that without opening the refrigerator, and she stared at me long enough that I realized I may not have phrased the question as brilliantly as I thought. John started laughing, which immediately made him more suspicious.

Once I started looking for John’s influence, I saw it everywhere. Pandora had started leaving the television remote on the arm of the couch instead of putting it on the coffee table. She’d kicked off her shoes near the door the previous evening and hadn’t moved them until morning. A sweatshirt had spent nearly an entire day draped over a dining-room chair. This was John Mercer behavior. Not severe John Mercer behavior, admittedly. We weren’t at abandoned cereal bowls or mysterious socks yet, but these things progress gradually, and I was beginning to think I was witnessing the early stages.

Then Mr Whiskers coughed up a hairball in the hallway, and something happened that confirmed my suspicions. All three of us looked at it, but nobody moved. Pandora looked at John, John looked at me, I looked at Pandora, and Mr Whiskers looked at all three of us. For several seconds, the four of us remained perfectly still, each apparently waiting for somebody else to accept responsibility. Finally Pandora said that someone should probably clean it up. John agreed enthusiastically. Neither of them moved. I cleaned it up because apparently someone in this apartment still had standards.

That was when I knew Pandora was becoming John Mercer. Not literally, obviously. I hadn’t completely lost touch with reality. But his influence was clearly spreading. First the charger, then the book, then the shoes, and now we had reached the stage where a cat hairball could sit in the hallway while three adults silently negotiated responsibility through eye contact. I didn’t know what came after that, but judging by John’s bedroom, I wasn’t optimistic.

Later that morning, Karen texted me while I was at work and asked how things were going. I mentioned my theory about Pandora picking up John’s habits, expecting her to tell me I was being ridiculous. Instead, she sent a laughing emoji and suggested that maybe Pandora was finally learning how to relax. That gave me something entirely new to worry about. Karen thought this was good. She and Dave were my coworkers, so neither of them had anything to do with what happened inside the apartment, but Karen had heard enough of my stories about John to understand exactly what I meant.

For a few minutes, I considered the possibility that Karen might actually be right. Maybe Pandora wasn’t becoming messy. Maybe she was simply becoming less concerned about everything being perfect. Maybe living with John had shown her that leaving a charger on the counter wasn’t a moral failure and that a pair of shoes could remain beside the couch overnight without destroying the structural integrity of the apartment. That seemed plausible. It also seemed suspiciously mature, so naturally I remained skeptical.

When I got home, Pandora was sitting on the couch with her feet up, reading the same book she’d left on the coffee table that morning. Her shoes were beside the couch. Her charger was still on the kitchen counter. John was sitting at the opposite end of the couch watching television, and Mr Whiskers was stretched between them like some kind of furry demilitarized zone. Pandora looked perfectly content, and for a moment I wondered if maybe I really had invented the whole thing. Maybe Karen was right. Maybe Pandora was simply relaxing, and I was turning ordinary domestic habits into evidence of some larger transformation because that’s apparently what my brain does when nobody supervises it.

Then Pandora finished her drink, set the empty glass on the coffee table, stood up, and walked toward the kitchen without taking it with her. I stared at the glass and then slowly looked at John. John looked at the glass, looked at me, and a smile crept across his face. I told him not to say it. He pointed out that he hadn’t said anything, and I told him he didn’t have to. From the kitchen, Pandora asked if we were being weird again. I looked at the abandoned glass, the charger on the counter, the shoes beside the couch, and the book that had apparently taken up permanent residence on the coffee table.

This was no longer a theory. John Mercer was rubbing off on her, and judging by that glass, we were already entering Phase Two.

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People

Margaret Atwood: The Liminal Line Between Fiction and Fear

Penelope

Margaret Atwood. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, not just because of the recent buzz around The Testaments – although that certainly didn’t hurt. But it’s more than that. It’s like she’s tapped into some deep part of me, this desire to understand the world through stories and symbols.

I think what draws me in is the way Atwood navigates the complexities of being a woman, especially in patriarchal societies. Her writing is never didactic or heavy-handed; instead, it’s infused with a sly wit and intelligence that makes you feel like you’re piecing together clues alongside her. Take The Handmaid’s Tale, for instance – on the surface, it’s a dystopian novel about oppression and resistance, but scratch beneath and you find all these rich layers of commentary on power, morality, and even science.

As I read Atwood’s work, I find myself getting stuck in this liminal space between fiction and reality. The Handmaid’s Tale is so eerily prophetic that it’s hard not to wonder if some of its themes are more than just hypothetical. Have we really become the kind of society where women’s bodies are owned by the state? Where dissent is quashed, and free thought is a luxury only the privileged can afford?

Atwood’s exploration of this gray area resonates deeply with me because I’ve been there myself – in my own way, at least. Growing up, I was always the one questioning authority, pushing against boundaries (much to my parents’ chagrin). And now, as an adult, I’m still grappling with what it means to be a woman in a world that often seems hell-bent on silencing us.

But Atwood’s writing isn’t just about me; it’s also about the world we live in. Her depiction of a society where environmental degradation has become a moral and economic imperative makes me feel like I’m staring into some sort of funhouse mirror – everything is distorted, but at the same time, eerily familiar.

As I delve deeper into Atwood’s work, I start to notice these threads of feminism and ecology running throughout her writing. It’s almost as if she’s trying to say that our personal choices have consequences on a much larger scale – consequences that can either perpetuate or challenge the status quo.

And yet…and yet…I’m not entirely convinced by Atwood’s vision of resistance. The Handmaid’s Tale, in particular, often feels like it’s advocating for a binary choice between oppression and revolution, as if there aren’t any other options on the table. It’s this rigid dichotomy that makes me uneasy – what about all the gray areas in between? What about the times when we’re neither fully complicit nor actively resisting?

Atwood’s writing isn’t meant to provide easy answers; it’s more like a series of provocations, nudging us toward uncomfortable truths and difficult questions. And that’s precisely why I keep coming back to her work – because she refuses to give me (or anyone) an easy way out.

As I write this, I’m aware that I’m still grappling with the complexities of Atwood’s vision – and my own place within it. It’s a messy, unresolved business, but one that feels essential to navigating our current world.

One thing that’s struck me about Atwood’s writing is her use of myth and folklore as a way to explore these big questions about power, morality, and the human condition. In The Penelopiad, for example, she retells Homer’s Odyssey from Penelope’s perspective – a woman who’s often reduced to a mere prop in her husband’s story. By giving her voice back, Atwood subverts this centuries-old narrative and reveals all these hidden dynamics at play.

It’s this kind of subtle manipulation that I find so captivating – the way she can take something familiar and turn it on its head. And yet, as much as I appreciate the intellectual gymnastics involved in deconstructing myth and folklore, I’m also aware that there’s a risk of losing sight of what matters most: the human experience.

Sometimes, when reading Atwood’s work, I feel like I’m so caught up in the cleverness and nuance that I forget to connect it back to my own life. It’s as if I’ve become too enamored with the intellectual exercises she sets up – the clever allusions, the philosophical debates – that I’ve neglected the messy, emotional aspects of her stories.

Take The Blind Assassin, for instance. On one level, it’s this intricate puzzle of a novel, full of codes and ciphers that require close attention to unravel. But beneath all the surface-level complexity, there’s a powerful exploration of family dynamics, trauma, and the ways in which our pasts shape us. It’s this human core that resonates with me on a deeper level – it reminds me that even the most cerebral writing is ultimately about people.

As I continue to read Atwood’s work, I’m aware that I’m still trying to reconcile these different parts of her oeuvre – the intellectual playfulness, the feminist critique, the exploration of human emotions. It’s a balancing act, and one that requires me to stay attuned to my own responses, rather than just getting lost in the cleverness or complexity.

Atwood’s writing is like this constant reminder that even as we try to understand the world through stories and symbols, there are always more questions waiting to be asked – more perspectives to consider. And it’s this sense of uncertainty, this willingness to stay open-minded and adaptable, that I think is ultimately what draws me back to her work again and again.

As I reflect on Atwood’s use of myth and folklore, I’m struck by how she blurs the lines between fact and fiction. It’s almost as if she’s saying that our understanding of the world is always filtered through some kind of narrative lens – whether it’s personal, cultural, or historical. And yet, this realization also makes me wonder: what happens when we try to separate the two? When do we take things at face value, and when do we question their underlying stories?

I think about my own experiences with mythology and folklore. Growing up, I was fascinated by Greek myths – particularly the stories of Penelope, Medusa, and Persephone. As a young woman, I saw these characters as symbols of power, agency, and transformation. But now that I’m older, I realize how much those interpretations were influenced by my own cultural and personal biases.

Atwood’s re-tellings of myths like The Penelopiad challenge me to rethink my assumptions about what it means to be a woman, especially in patriarchal societies. She forces me to confront the ways in which our stories have been distorted or manipulated over time – often to serve the interests of those in power.

It’s this kind of critical thinking that I value most in Atwood’s work. She doesn’t offer easy answers or solutions; instead, she poses questions and encourages us to explore the complexities of human experience. And yet, as much as I appreciate her intellectual rigor, I’m also aware that there are times when I need something more straightforward – a story that speaks directly to my emotions, rather than just my intellect.

Take The Year of the Flood, for example. On one level, it’s this dense, philosophical novel about environmental collapse and human resilience. But beneath all the surface-level complexity, there’s a powerful exploration of grief, loss, and redemption. It’s this emotional core that resonates with me on a deeper level – it reminds me that even the most cerebral writing can be deeply personal.

As I continue to read Atwood’s work, I’m aware that I’m still trying to reconcile these different parts of her oeuvre – the intellectual playfulness, the feminist critique, the exploration of human emotions. It’s a balancing act, and one that requires me to stay attuned to my own responses, rather than just getting lost in the cleverness or complexity.

Atwood’s writing is like this constant reminder that even as we try to understand the world through stories and symbols, there are always more questions waiting to be asked – more perspectives to consider. And it’s this sense of uncertainty, this willingness to stay open-minded and adaptable, that I think is ultimately what draws me back to her work again and again.

But what if I’m wrong? What if Atwood’s vision is too narrow, too focused on the intellectual or feminist aspects of human experience? What if there are other stories waiting to be told – stories that don’t fit neatly into our existing narratives?

As I ponder these questions, I realize that they’re not just about Atwood’s writing; they’re also about my own role as a reader. Do I have the capacity to see beyond her intellectual exercises and emotional explorations? Can I recognize when she’s pushing me toward uncomfortable truths or difficult questions – even if it means challenging my own assumptions and biases?

These are the kinds of uncertainties that keep me coming back to Atwood’s work. She doesn’t offer easy answers, but instead invites me into a world of complex questions and messy, unresolved business. And it’s this kind of intellectual humility, this willingness to stay open-minded and adaptable, that I think is ultimately what makes her writing so powerful – and so necessary in our current world.

As I sit here with my thoughts on Atwood’s writing, I’m struck by the realization that her work has become a kind of mirror for me – reflecting back my own experiences, biases, and assumptions about the world. It’s as if she’s taken all these fragments of myself and woven them into a tapestry of complex questions and messy, unresolved business.

I think about how Atwood’s writing often blurs the lines between fact and fiction, leaving me to wonder what’s real and what’s constructed. And I realize that this is precisely the kind of uncertainty that makes her work so compelling – it forces me to question my own understanding of the world and to consider multiple perspectives.

But what if this uncertainty is also a limitation? What if Atwood’s refusal to offer easy answers or clear solutions is actually a reflection of our own inability to confront the complexities of human experience? What if, as readers, we’re more interested in intellectual exercises than emotional resonance?

As I ponder these questions, I’m reminded of my own experiences with writing. When I write, it’s often because I’m trying to make sense of something – a difficult emotion, a complex idea, or a messy situation. And yet, the more I write, the more I realize that there are no easy answers, only more questions and complexities waiting to be explored.

Atwood’s writing has taught me to approach my own writing with a similar sense of humility and uncertainty. Rather than trying to impose order on the world, I’m learning to embrace the messiness of human experience – to see it as a rich tapestry of contradictions and paradoxes rather than a neat, tidy narrative.

And yet, even as I’m drawn to this kind of intellectual curiosity, I’m also aware that there are times when I need something more straightforward – a story that speaks directly to my emotions rather than just my intellect. Atwood’s writing often leaves me feeling stimulated and challenged, but sometimes it also leaves me feeling lonely or disconnected from the world around me.

This is why I think I’ll continue to read Atwood’s work, even as I struggle with its complexities and uncertainties. Because in her writing, I see a reflection of my own struggles – not just as a reader, but as a writer, too. And it’s this sense of solidarity, this feeling that I’m part of a larger conversation about the human experience, that keeps me coming back to her work again and again.

But what lies ahead? As I continue to read Atwood’s writing, I wonder if I’ll find more answers or just more questions. Will I discover new perspectives on the world, or will I become even more lost in the complexities of human experience? Only time will tell, but for now, I’m content to keep exploring – with Atwood as my guide, and myself as the uncertain, questioning reader that I am.

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Humor

I’m Starting to Think Mr Whiskers Knows More

Hal

I’m lying on the bed watching Pandora do her hair in front of the dresser when I notice Mr Whiskers sitting beside her, staring at the floor. Normally this wouldn’t concern me. Cats stare at things. I’ve accepted that. They stare at walls, ceilings, empty corners, closed doors, and occasionally directly over your shoulder in a way that makes you reconsider everything you’ve ever believed about the supernatural. Mr Whiskers is particularly good at this. The problem is that after everything that’s happened over the last few days, I’ve begun to suspect his staring has categories. There’s the ordinary stare he gives birds through the window, the disappointed stare he gives an empty food bowl, the contemptuous stare he gives me whenever I move him from my chair, and then there’s this one. This is the focused stare. The same kind of stare he had yesterday when I became convinced he and Pandora had developed some kind of private communication system. I was probably wrong about that, although Pandora’s immediate ability to identify when I’m about to develop a theory remains unexplained.

I try to ignore him. This is something I’ve been working on. Yesterday I spent half the day investigating Pandora’s behavior only to discover that something really was wrong with her work project, while almost every piece of evidence I’d collected had absolutely nothing to do with it. The experience taught me an important lesson about distinguishing instinct from interpretation. My instinct that something was wrong had been correct; my interpretation involving Karen, John Mercer, Mrs Jenkins, a scarf, a pigeon, and possibly Mr Whiskers had been less successful. So today I’m attempting a more disciplined approach. I observe the cat. I acknowledge the cat. I do not construct a theory about the cat. This works for approximately forty-five seconds.

“What is he looking at?” I ask. Pandora doesn’t turn around. She tells me she doesn’t know. I ask whether she noticed him staring before I mentioned it, and she says no. That answer bothers me slightly because Mr Whiskers is sitting about three feet away from her and has been staring at exactly the same spot for nearly a minute. I ask if she can see anything on the floor. Pandora finally looks down, then at Mr Whiskers, then back at the mirror. “No.” I ask whether she thinks that’s strange. “No.” I point out that she didn’t really look. She tells me she looked sufficiently. I’m not sure how one determines the sufficient duration for examining a potentially significant area of bedroom floor, but apparently Pandora has developed standards.

Mr Whiskers hasn’t moved. His ears are pointed forward and his eyes are fixed on the narrow space beneath the dresser. Now we have specificity. He’s not staring randomly at the floor; he’s staring under something. That matters. I sit up and lean forward to get a better look, but from the bed I can’t see anything except darkness and a little dust. Pandora notices what I’m doing in the mirror and says my name in that particular tone she’s developed over the last few days. “I’m only looking,” I tell her. She reminds me that looking is how these things always start. I tell her that’s ridiculous because looking is also how people find things. She asks what I’m expecting to find beneath the dresser. I tell her I don’t know, which is why I’m looking. She says that’s exactly the answer she was afraid of.

I get off the bed and crouch beside Mr Whiskers. He doesn’t acknowledge me. I wave one hand slowly in front of his face, and he shifts his head just enough to continue looking around it. That’s interesting. Whatever has his attention is apparently more important than me, which narrows the possibilities considerably because Mr Whiskers generally considers interrupting me one of his primary responsibilities. I lower my head and look beneath the dresser again. Nothing. I reach for my phone and turn on the flashlight. Pandora asks what I’m doing. “Establishing whether there’s anything under here.” She tells me there isn’t. I ask how she knows. She says because it’s a dresser. I explain that being a dresser does not prevent objects from existing beneath it. She tells me that’s not what she meant. I know that’s not what she meant, but I also know she hasn’t answered the question.

There’s something under there.

I can just barely see it near the wall, a small dark shape partially hidden beneath the dresser. I can’t tell what it is from this angle, but the discovery immediately changes the situation. Mr Whiskers wasn’t staring at nothing. He was staring at something I couldn’t see. This is exactly the sort of distinction Pandora keeps insisting I should make, and for once I’m pleased to report that the evidence is cooperating. I tell her there’s an object under the dresser. She doesn’t seem impressed. I tell her Mr Whiskers located it before either of us did. She says he’s closer to the floor. That’s technically true but unnecessarily dismissive of his contribution.

I reach underneath, but the object is too far back. Mr Whiskers watches my hand with intense concentration. When I pull it out empty, he looks at me in a way that I can only describe as professionally disappointed. I get a coat hanger from the closet and straighten it enough to reach beneath the dresser. Pandora stops doing her hair and turns around. “You’re using a coat hanger now?” I tell her we’ve moved beyond visual inspection. She asks what stage we’re in. “Retrieval.” She stares at me for a moment before turning back toward the mirror. I hear her mutter something about marrying a normal person in her next life, which I choose not to address because I’m making progress.

The hanger touches something. Mr Whiskers immediately lowers himself into a crouch. I stop. He stops. I move the hanger again. His tail twitches. That’s a response. I do it a third time to establish repeatability, and his tail twitches again. Pandora sees this in the mirror and tells me to stop conducting experiments on the cat. I’m not conducting experiments on him; I’m using his reactions as supplemental observational data. There’s an important ethical distinction. She tells me there isn’t. I drag the object slightly forward, and Mr Whiskers moves with it. Whatever is beneath the dresser clearly matters to him. Yesterday he knew when Karen was arriving before I did because he’d apparently been watching a pigeon outside. The day before that he somehow ended up exactly where Pandora and John were preparing my surprise cake. At the time I’d considered those coincidences. Now I’m starting to wonder whether I’ve been underestimating him.

The object catches on something and disappears back into the darkness. Mr Whiskers looks up at me. “I know,” I tell him. Pandora stops and looks over her shoulder. “Did you just apologize to him?” I explain that I didn’t apologize; I acknowledged a setback. She asks whether Mr Whiskers is now part of the investigation. I tell her there is no investigation. We’re retrieving an unidentified object from beneath our furniture. She asks who “we” refers to. I look at Mr Whiskers. She closes her eyes for a moment and goes back to her hair.

I eventually get the object close enough to reach with my fingers. Mr Whiskers stands immediately and moves beside my hand as I pull it out. For a moment I can’t tell what I’m holding. It’s small, black, slightly dusty, and shaped vaguely like a piece of electronic equipment. My brain begins supplying possibilities before I’ve even examined it properly. A component. A transmitter. Something that fell from someone’s pocket. Maybe John dropped it the last time he stopped by. Maybe Karen did. Mrs Jenkins was here earlier in the week. Pandora has been carrying her phone everywhere because of the trouble with her work project. There are several entirely reasonable explanations, and I’m proud of myself for remembering that before jumping to—

Pandora starts laughing.

I look at her. Then I look at the object.

It’s one of her hair clips.

Not an ordinary hair clip, apparently, because this particular one has a little decorative piece on it that catches the light when I turn it. Pandora tells me she’s been looking for it for two days. She must have dropped it while getting ready and kicked it beneath the dresser without noticing. That’s it. That’s the entire mystery. No transmitter, no hidden message, no unexplained connection to John, Karen, Dave, or Mrs Jenkins. Pandora dropped a hair clip. Mr Whiskers saw it beneath the dresser. I found it because he was staring at it.

I hand the clip to Pandora and sit back on the edge of the bed. She thanks me, still smiling, and says something about being glad we solved another major case. I ignore the sarcasm because there’s a more important point here. Mr Whiskers knew. Not in the conspiratorial sense, obviously. I’m not suggesting he understood that Pandora had lost a hair clip or that he had deliberately positioned himself there to help recover it. I’m simply saying he possessed information that neither Pandora nor I possessed. He knew there was something beneath the dresser. We didn’t. I followed his behavior, investigated the location, and recovered the missing object. That’s not paranoia. That’s successful intelligence gathering.

Pandora tells me it’s called being a cat.

I tell her that’s exactly the sort of attitude that causes valuable sources to be overlooked.

She puts the hair clip on the dresser and goes back to fixing her hair while I look down at Mr Whiskers. He’s still sitting beside me, although now that the object has been recovered he seems completely uninterested in the investigation. I scratch behind his ears and tell him he did good work. Pandora says, “Please don’t encourage yourself.” I explain that I’m encouraging the cat. She says that’s somehow worse.

Mr Whiskers jumps onto the bed, walks across my pillow, and settles down near the headboard. For the next few minutes everything is normal. Pandora finishes her hair. I check my phone. Mr Whiskers starts washing one paw. The case, such as it was, is closed. I actually feel pretty good about how I handled it. I observed something unusual, gathered evidence, considered multiple explanations, identified a physical object, and reached the correct conclusion. There were no accusations. Nobody was implicated in an international conspiracy. Mrs Jenkins remained entirely uninvolved. This might be progress.

Then Mr Whiskers stops washing his paw.

His head turns slowly toward the closet.

He stares.

I follow his gaze.

Pandora sees me.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No.”

“He’s looking at the closet.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He was a cat when he found your hair clip.”

“He didn’t find my hair clip. You found my hair clip.”

“Because he showed me where to look.”

“He stared under the dresser.”

“Exactly.”

Pandora puts down her brush and turns toward me. I can tell she’s preparing an argument, but I’m no longer paying attention because Mr Whiskers has gotten off the bed. He walks toward the closet, stops directly in front of the closed door, and sits down.

Pandora and I both look at him.

For once, she doesn’t say anything.

I slowly stand.

“Don’t,” she says.

“You saw that.”

“I saw a cat sit down.”

“In front of the closet.”

“Cats sit in front of things.”

“He chose that specific location.”

“Hal.”

I reach for the closet door.

Mr Whiskers looks up at the handle.

Pandora tells me not to open it. I ask why. She says because if I open that closet and find absolutely nothing, I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon trying to determine what was there before we looked.

That’s ridiculous.

I open the door.

Mr Whiskers darts past my legs, jumps onto the bottom shelf, and emerges two seconds later with one of my socks in his mouth.

Pandora starts laughing so hard she has to sit down.

I stare at the cat.

He stares back at me with my sock hanging from his mouth.

Apparently, he’d hidden it there himself.

I take the sock away from him and look at Pandora, who is now laughing too hard to speak. I would like to point out that this doesn’t invalidate my theory. If anything, it makes the situation more interesting. Mr Whiskers knew exactly where the missing sock was because Mr Whiskers was responsible for the missing sock.

That’s knowledge.

And I’m starting to think he has more of it than he’s letting on.

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Fashion

Footwear That Works from Resort Mornings to Evening Plans

Fiona

One of my favorite things to watch at a beautiful resort isn’t the architecture or even the gardens—it’s the quiet confidence of people who packed well. You can usually spot them before breakfast. They’re walking to the café with a coffee in hand, looking completely comfortable without appearing underdressed. Hours later, you’ll see many of those same people heading to dinner wearing the very same shoes.

That’s never an accident.

When luggage space is limited, every piece has to earn its place. Footwear is where smart packing makes the biggest difference because the right pair doesn’t just match your clothes—it keeps up with your day.

I have become increasingly fond of loafers for exactly that reason. A well-made leather loafer feels polished enough for lunch on a terrace yet relaxed enough for wandering through resort gardens or browsing local boutiques. Unlike shoes that only work in one setting, loafers seem to adapt naturally as the day changes.

Minimalist leather sneakers deserve just as much credit. The newer designs are far more refined than athletic shoes from a few years ago. A clean white sneaker paired with linen trousers or a simple summer dress looks intentional rather than casual, especially when the rest of the outfit stays uncomplicated. More importantly, your feet still feel as good after dinner as they did before breakfast.

Even ankle boots can surprise people. In cooler destinations or mountain resorts, a sleek boot with a low heel offers stability while adding structure to softer fabrics. Worn with a midi dress or tailored jeans, they create an outfit that feels effortless without looking overly styled.

When choosing versatile shoes, I pay more attention to materials than trends. Full-grain leather, soft suede, and high-quality woven fabrics age beautifully because they develop character instead of simply showing wear. They also photograph well, something many travelers appreciate long after returning home.

Color matters just as much. Soft neutrals—cream, tan, taupe, warm brown, or classic black—blend naturally with the pieces most of us already pack for vacation. Bright statement shoes can certainly be fun, but they’re far less likely to become the pair you reach for every morning.

Comfort deserves equal attention. Beautiful shoes that become painful after an hour rarely leave the hotel room a second time. Good arch support, flexible soles, and secure construction aren’t glamorous details, yet they’re the reason a favorite pair often stays in rotation for years.

I also think it’s worth paying attention to proportion. A flowing summer dress feels more balanced with a sleek loafer than with a bulky athletic shoe. Wide-leg linen trousers benefit from footwear with clean lines that keeps the silhouette elegant instead of heavy. These small adjustments make an outfit appear thoughtfully composed without requiring any extra effort.

One habit I’ve adopted is packing with complete outfits in mind rather than individual pieces. If one pair of shoes works with nearly everything in the suitcase, I’ve probably made the right choice. If a pair only works with one outfit, it usually stays home.

The most stylish travelers I’ve met rarely pack the most shoes. They simply pack the right ones.

That, to me, is the real luxury of thoughtful dressing. Instead of changing shoes for every occasion, you move comfortably through your day—from breakfast under palm trees to an evening dinner outdoors—feeling appropriately dressed the entire time. The best footwear doesn’t ask for attention. It quietly supports every step while allowing your personal style to do the talking.

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George Oppen: Knots in the Language (and My Sanity)

Penelope

George Oppen’s poetry always makes me feel like I’m trying to untangle a knot while simultaneously watching it grow tighter. It’s a sensation that’s both maddening and mesmerizing, like staring at a puzzle with pieces that refuse to fit together. As I read through his collected works, I find myself drawn to the tension between clarity and obscurity, as if he’s intentionally teasing out meaning from the very fabric of language itself.

I think about my own writing process, how it often feels like trying to grasp a handful of sand – the more I squeeze, the more slips away. Oppen’s poetry is like that too, but with a sense of purposeful slipping. He’s not afraid to let go of words, or meanings, or even his own identity, in order to reveal something new and uncharted.

It’s this willingness to surrender control that makes me feel uneasy. As someone who writes as a way to make sense of the world (and myself), I’m drawn to Oppen’s fluid boundaries between poetry and politics, art and activism. He blurs these lines with ease, which is both beautiful and unsettling. It’s like he’s showing me that my own categories – writer, thinker, citizen – are nothing more than provisional labels, waiting to be shed or rearranged.

I’ve always been fascinated by the way Oppen’s life intersected with mine, even though we never actually met. We share a generation – I’m a young adult, trying to make sense of my own place in the world – and a passion for exploring the intersections between art and politics. His work speaks directly to me on days when my own words feel like they’re stuck in quicksand.

But there’s also something more intangible at play here. Maybe it’s the way Oppen’s poetry captures the anxiety of living through turbulent times, when everything seems to be shifting beneath our feet. As I navigate my own uncertain future – trying to balance creative pursuits with practical realities – I find solace in his willingness to confront uncertainty head-on.

I wonder if this is what draws me to Oppen’s writing: a sense that he’s grappling with the same existential questions I am, even as he defies easy answers. His poetry becomes a kind of confessional, not just for himself but also for anyone who dares to engage with his words. It’s a space where we can confront our own contradictions – between hope and despair, between clarity and ambiguity – without fear of judgment or resolution.

In many ways, Oppen’s work is like an ongoing conversation that refuses to be pinned down. He speaks directly to me on days when I feel lost in the labyrinthine corridors of my own mind, but also on days when I’m convinced I’ve stumbled upon some hidden truth. His poetry becomes a threshold, beckoning me to step across into the unknown – not with a sense of resolution, but with a willingness to stay suspended between words and silence.

The more I read Oppen’s work, the more I realize that our shared unease is precisely what connects us. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, like being stranded on a rocky shoreline, where the waves keep crashing against the shore, threatening to sweep me away at any moment. But it’s also exhilarating – a reminder that meaning isn’t something we capture; it’s something we’re constantly creating, even as the world around us keeps shifting and dissolving.

And so I continue to return to Oppen’s poetry, this space where language and reality blur like watercolors on wet paper. It’s not just about understanding his work – or mine own – but about embracing the uncertainty that comes with living in a world that refuses to yield its secrets easily. In this sense, Oppen becomes my fellow traveler on this winding path, someone who shows me that the journey itself is the destination, no matter how messy and unresolved it may feel.

As I delve deeper into Oppen’s poetry, I’m struck by the way he inhabits multiple worlds at once – the world of politics, where ideology and history collide; the world of art, where language and form entwine; and the world of personal experience, where vulnerability and intimacy reside. It’s as if he’s constantly shifting between these different realms, using each one to illuminate the others.

I think about how this multiplicity reflects my own attempts at writing, trying to balance the need for clarity with the allure of ambiguity. Oppen’s poetry often feels like a series of thresholds, where words and meanings blur or dissolve on the cusp of being grasped. It’s disorienting, but also liberating – a reminder that meaning isn’t fixed, but rather something we can negotiate and reinterpret.

One of the things I admire most about Oppen is his willingness to confront the contradictions at the heart of human experience. His poetry doesn’t shy away from the complexities and paradoxes that make life so messy and beautiful. He writes about love and loss, hope and despair, in a way that acknowledges both their interplay and their irreconcilability.

This tension between opposites resonates deeply with me, particularly when I’m struggling to reconcile my own creative ambitions with the demands of everyday reality. Oppen’s poetry shows me that these tensions are inherent, not just personal, but universal – that we’re all caught up in this dance between light and darkness, clarity and obscurity.

I wonder if this is what he meant by his famous phrase, “the figure a poem makes / falls in the middle of your life”? Is it possible that poetry, rather than resolving our contradictions, actually reveals them to us, making visible the knots and complexities we’d rather not confront? Oppen’s work suggests as much – that poetry can be a kind of mirror, reflecting back at us our own deepest anxieties and aspirations.

In many ways, this is both exhilarating and terrifying. To think that poetry can reveal so much about ourselves, to see in Oppen’s words a reflection of my own confusions and desires… it’s like being offered a glimpse into a hidden room within myself, a space where the contours of my own identity are slowly taking shape.

As I read on, I feel myself becoming more acutely aware of the stakes involved – not just for Oppen, but for all of us who attempt to make sense of our lives through language and art. His poetry is a reminder that we’re constantly negotiating between truth and fiction, reality and imagination, as we try to express ourselves in the world.

And so I return to his words, again and again, drawn by their complexity, their intensity, and their willingness to confront the unknown. Oppen’s poetry has become a kind of touchstone for me, a reminder that meaning is never fixed, but always on the verge of being rewritten – a prospect both daunting and liberating, like standing at the edge of a vast, uncharted sea.

As I stand on this precipice, gazing out into the unknown, I’m struck by the way Oppen’s poetry seems to defy the very notion of resolution. It’s as if he’s intentionally pushing against the boundaries of language, testing its limits and watching it snap back like a rubber band. This sense of tension is both exhilarating and unnerving, like being suspended in mid-air without a net.

I think about how this relates to my own writing process, where I often find myself caught between the desire for clarity and the need for nuance. Oppen’s poetry shows me that these two impulses aren’t mutually exclusive – that they can actually inform and complicate each other in ways both beautiful and unsettling. It’s like he’s revealing a hidden thread that runs through all of human experience: the tension between our longing for coherence and our fascination with the fragmented, the incomplete.

As I delve deeper into Oppen’s work, I start to notice the way his poetry is infused with a sense of impermanence – as if words themselves are ephemeral, fleeting things. This awareness is both humbling and liberating, like being reminded that even the most seemingly fixed truths can dissolve in an instant. It’s a reminder that language is always provisional, always subject to revision or reinterpretation.

I wonder if this sense of impermanence is what allows Oppen’s poetry to feel so urgent, so alive – as if he’s capturing moments on the fly, before they slip away into the ether. His words have a quality of ephemerality, like the flickering images in a dream that vanish when you try to grasp them. It’s a feeling I’ve tried to capture in my own writing, but never quite succeeded – until now, that is.

As I read on, I start to see Oppen’s poetry as a kind of mirror reflecting back at me my own fears and desires – the desire for connection, the fear of disconnection; the longing for clarity, the uncertainty of ambiguity. His words seem to be saying that these contradictions are inherent to human experience, that we’re all caught up in this dance between light and darkness.

And yet, even as I acknowledge this tension, I find myself drawn to the spaces between – the silences, the ellipses, the gaps where meaning seems to hang by a thread. It’s as if Oppen is pointing me toward some hidden threshold, beckoning me to step across into the unknown. His poetry becomes a kind of compass, guiding me through the labyrinthine corridors of my own mind.

I start to realize that Oppen’s work isn’t just about conveying meaning – it’s about creating spaces where meaning can be negotiated, reinterpreted, and reimagined. It’s a reminder that language is always in motion, always subject to revision or reinterpretation. His poetry shows me that the act of writing itself is a form of resistance against the fixed, the static – a way of capturing the fluidity and complexity of human experience.

As I stand on this threshold, looking out into the unknown, I feel a sense of gratitude toward Oppen’s poetry – for showing me that meaning isn’t something we capture; it’s something we’re constantly creating. His words have become a kind of touchstone for me, a reminder that language is always provisional, always subject to revision or reinterpretation.

And so I continue to return to his poetry, drawn by its complexity, its intensity, and its willingness to confront the unknown. Oppen’s work has become a part of my own writing process – a reminder that meaning is never fixed, but always on the verge of being rewritten.

As I continue to immerse myself in Oppen’s poetry, I find myself drawn into the world of his politics and activism. His commitment to social justice and his critiques of capitalism are deeply resonant for me, particularly as I navigate my own place within the world. I think about how his poetry often blurs the lines between art and politics, revealing the complex interplay between the two.

For Oppen, it seems, poetry is not just a means of expression but also a tool for resistance against the dominant narratives of our time. His words are infused with a sense of urgency, a desire to confront the injustices of the world head-on. And yet, his approach is never didactic or preachy; instead, he uses language in a way that’s both subtle and subversive.

I think about how this approach resonates with my own experiences as a young writer trying to make sense of the world. I’ve often felt frustrated by the expectations placed upon me – to produce work that’s polished and professional, to conform to certain standards or conventions. But Oppen’s poetry shows me that there’s another way to write, one that’s more honest, more raw, and more revolutionary.

One of the things that draws me to Oppen’s politics is his commitment to the concept of “nothing” – not as a negation but as a affirmation. He sees nothingness as a fundamental aspect of reality, a space where meaning can be renegotiated and reinterpreted. For him, poetry becomes a way of exploring this nothingness, of probing its depths and revealing its contours.

This idea has a profound impact on me, particularly in my own writing process. I’ve always struggled with the notion that language should be precise, that words should convey clear and unambiguous meanings. But Oppen’s work shows me that there’s value in ambiguity, in uncertainty, in the spaces between words. His poetry becomes a kind of threshold for me, beckoning me to step across into the unknown.

As I delve deeper into Oppen’s politics, I start to notice the way he critiques the notion of “progress.” For him, progress is not a linear concept but rather a circular one – we’re always returning to where we started, with all its complexities and contradictions. This idea resonates deeply with me, particularly as I navigate my own place within the world.

I think about how this critique of progress relates to my own experiences as a young adult trying to make sense of my place in the world. I’ve often felt pressure to conform to certain expectations – to pursue a career that’s stable and secure, to produce work that’s marketable and profitable. But Oppen’s poetry shows me that there’s another way to live, one that’s more authentic, more honest, and more revolutionary.

As I continue to explore Oppen’s politics, I start to see the connections between his ideas and my own experiences as a writer. His notion of “nothing” becomes a metaphor for the spaces between words – the silences, the ellipses, the gaps where meaning hangs by a thread. And his critique of progress reveals the circular nature of human experience – we’re always returning to where we started, with all its complexities and contradictions.

I wonder if this is what Oppen meant by his famous phrase, “the figure a poem makes / falls in the middle of your life”? Is it possible that poetry, rather than resolving our contradictions, actually reveals them to us, making visible the knots and complexities we’d rather not confront? His work suggests as much – that poetry can be a kind of mirror reflecting back at us our own deepest anxieties and aspirations.

In many ways, this is both exhilarating and terrifying. To think that poetry can reveal so much about ourselves, to see in Oppen’s words a reflection of my own confusions and desires… it’s like being offered a glimpse into a hidden room within myself, a space where the contours of my own identity are slowly taking shape.

As I stand on this threshold, looking out into the unknown, I feel a sense of gratitude toward Oppen’s poetry – for showing me that meaning isn’t something we capture; it’s something we’re constantly creating. His words have become a kind of touchstone for me, a reminder that language is always provisional, always subject to revision or reinterpretation.

And so I continue to return to his poetry, drawn by its complexity, its intensity, and its willingness to confront the unknown. Oppen’s work has become a part of my own writing process – a reminder that meaning is never fixed, but always on the verge of being rewritten.

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